The Entrance is a Timed Affair
This entrance will play with my affections no longer. it attempts to convince us things.
but we are easily summed which will be revealed soon
this point of view merely provides the next clue to a clue and that only gets you to the next one. now,
this is my species... Whims, listless reason but restless ambition, oozing useless. But i call it home.
this is not nostalgia for poets and measured pieces
no, this is not
grasping your bars, naming that which you see beyond "the bars".
Elements flitter about undecided
Or forums for theater
We had that time. We are done.
What about your distorted past?
Acquiescence is required
expect no end, accept no endings, sublimate your prophesies, appease.
feel welcome. play on temperered impulse.
words graze the grain flitter away.
fly me to the moon upon a la dee dee dee da
make yourself appear all encompassing and sincere.
be unusually clement.
taunt and tease your shadow.
continue to be a compilation of thoughts
don't be primitive. show me. taunt me into seeing you.
leak out of my computer onto my lap.
the play is on
To do and continue.
Hello. Come in, morality and time
Be clever at little
Sever your frozen smiles
Don't angrily swell, instead formlessly whistle
Cleverly now hide your string
Every essence secure in its own, apparently or not, truth or swindle, and God said, "Let there be sport" and there was confusion. It breaks into categories and create Criteria. My criteria contains this monologue and counts upward 1-2-3-4-5-6-7. And now everything is 1-2-3-4 a-b-c. That is why you and I are at school today, boys and girls. Pay attention.
Leak a little longer in my lap.
Do you feel stuck in a pre-set web of reality that you must logically sort? Would you like to feel yourself creating a pattern?
Now there is help
Or can you not give it any thought at all; perceiving this arrangement of words as not stimulating to your methods of this association?
Now there is help
You are what you do and are treated as such because of your language. Pontificatinglyexcessivelysyllablically continuing, the English language labels us as "a(n)"! I protest. Language is a tool that channels our primal conception and imprisons it in strict rigidity.
I say no more language. Dammit. I hate writers, Jim.
All the possiblilities conceivable, and all we fail to conceive, lie latent. However, when labeled and categorized, we become mesmerized in developing a fine line of awareness. We believe in this. We take on functions defined by our narrow role. Our labels are our destiny. This is all very elementary.
But wait. There is more. I will now attempt to make you believe what shall seem an absurd proposition. You know that through our words we attempt to transfer concepts, even emotions, as best we can. We analyse ourselves by using that communication, the communication of our own making. But that is not the only expression we accomplish. We actually create particles with our communication. Physical objects. Elemental physical objects. We are categorical allegory.
Yes we are, bitch-asses* (copyrighted term used without permission)
I will say no more...
*copyrighted big space usage blatantly plagiarized.
...on that topic. My new topic will include
pinpoint instruments and a petticoat of deceit from a pantyline brain, scampy girls with miniature eyes offer empty dresses but give me a good looking sugar mama with ice cream on her cones, no sprinkles on yogurt. Finding happiness in Manhattan Beach one night of being praised by drunken strangers when a highlight is usually forgetting the existence of the San Fernando Valley will be only the beginning of this painful sentence in both it's senses that ends struggling for a phrase to set me free and only exists while it is read and regards a self inflating image. Won't you come home with me, baby? But first go pay the tab. I mean it. You get your little ass over there and pay.
But I set out to write a poem. I don't know what I should call it. Any suggestions?
On two. Hut Hut.
those kind that don't write on internet sites
grind their teeth on whisky bottles
write about the lust of something
cold whipping wind
Have constant stubble on their chin
walk with pain
scoff at convention but enslaved to their own
commit suicide at 69
are faceless facades of implied perfection
involved in an endless search for the perfect phrase.
chi chi ©2002 chi chi ©2002